Prince Hans, Job Hunter
by FantasyFoSho
Summary: So he failed at becoming king, who cares? Being a king of people is overrated. Hans has decided that he would rather be a king of much finer things, like flowers or hair cream. To get to the top, though, you must first start at the bottom. With trusty newspaper in hand, Hans goes hunting, not only for a job, but also for his destiny.
1. Prince Hans, Job Hunter

**Author's Note: **Okay, so this is a fun little thing I wanted to do in between writing chapters for my other story (Fire and Ice, Light and Shadow). I was sitting in my room thinking about the movie, when I thought about Hans and how he was sent back to his 12 brothers. What would he do, now that his first plan to be king failed? Does he just give up on life? Nay, I say. Hans is not the type to give up! Sure, he might be bitter about the whole Arendelle thing, but he would not give up on life, _or_ being king. He'd just have to be a different type of king, and rule a different type of kingdom. But first, he needs a job. So, with trusty newspaper in hand, he hunts. What job will he end up with? And will he rise high enough to become king of the workplace? Find out after these short messages:

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><p>I dropped my pencil...<br>Just kidding.  
>It was actually a pen.<p>

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><p><em>And so it begins...<em>

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><p>"Arendelle this, Arendelle that!" Glass broke as a newspaper was hurled out the second story window of a castle in the Southern Isles. It landed on a rose bush, who did not much enjoy the rude interruption. The rose bush, you see, was in the middle of a date with the raspberry bush next to it, not that the anyone cared.<p>

"You know how much I hate reading about them!" said an angry voice. "Never, _ever_ put a newspaper in front of my sight again unless I command you to, you hear me?"

"B-b-but Prince Hans, you sp-specifically told me, in your exact words 'Go get me a newspaper, peasant'. S-so I did!"

"I don't recall ever saying that, that way. I said it in a much more amicable, less stuttery tone."

"As y-you say, Prince Hans."

"Now go get me another newspaper, peasant."

"B-but… okay."

**Ten minutes later**

"Arendelle this, Arendelle that!" Glass broke as another newspaper was hurled out another window on the second floor of a castle in the Southern Isles. It landed on an unexpecting rabbit who was so startled at being attacked that it fainted.

"I have _had it_ with all of these articles lately, praising the bee-you-teeful queen and her darling princess sister. Blast them, blast them all!" A third window broke as a boot was hurled through it, striking the same rabbit from earlier, this time on the knee - poor thing, having just recovered from being struck by a flying newspaper.

"Would… would you like me to get you another newspaper, Prince Hans?"

"Yes, yes. But be quick about it!" Prince Hans said, falling back into his chair. He propped his feet up on the table and crossed them; booted foot below, bootless foot above. The beleaguered servant shuffled away. "Peasant!" He added, hoping the man heard. _What a despicable creature._

Hans found himself humming the chorus to 'Let It Go' by Queen Elsa of Arendelle. A continental hit. An instant classic. "No! No! No!" He jumped to his feet stomping. "I hate that song!" He collapsed onto his bed and sobbed into his pillows. _So infectious… So… catchy…._ Heavy breathing ensued. _Get a hold of yourself, Hans. You're royalty! It's in your blood. _He stood up and walked calmly, but awkwardly - having only one boot did that, to his mirror. He looked at himself.

_I'm so handsome._ He concluded. He formed pistols with his forefingers and thumbs, pointing them at his reflection. "Hey there, hotshot." he hissed, winking. "You can do anything." He wove his fingers through his hair, then reached with his other hand for his comb, quickly reverting the ruffled tufts back to their perfect state. "You don't need some princess to be a king. You _are _a king." He turned his head, admiring his sideburns. "King of sexy." He had just bucked his hips when he noticed the reflection of his wretched servant standing at the door.

"Did you bring the newspaper?" he asked, irritated.

The insufferable man dragged his feet forward, holding out the newspaper. Hans snatched it, noticing the front page had been ripped out. "What is this, a _joke?_" The man quickly backed up, holding his palms out defensively. "N-no, my Prince. I merely removed the parts about Arendelle."

Glass did not break as a third newspaper soared through the hole in the window created by the first. A rose bush lost its only rose; the raspberry bush next to it ruffled its leaves.

**Thirty minutes later**

"Look bro, you gotta get a job." said Benson, Hans' idiot of an eleventh brother. "I _know_ that." Hans said, not looking at the man. _How does he live with himself, looking like that? _

"It's easy as pie. Gimme that paper." Benson spat out his toothpick, then curled his finger at Hans. Hans threw the newspaper at his head. Unfortunately, Benson caught it.

"Alright, check it out." Benson flipped through to the classified job listings section. As he read through each entry, he peered up. Hans felt like throwing up every time the man looked his way. "Let me ask you something, brother." Hans said, feeling his stomach churn.

"Ask away, little man."

Hans' blood boiled. "Okay. Do you have mirrors in your castle?"

Benson spat out a single harsh laugh. "Heck yeah, my castle is pretty much _made_ out of mirrors. Hans' mouth fell open. "And… they're all completely intact?" Benson raised his right brow. The right portion of his 'm' shaped mustache raised as well. Hans gagged. "Of course they are." Benson said. "Liar." Hans coughed.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Hans said, thumping his chest with his fist. Benson looked at him quizzically. "Okay… Anyways." Benson threw the paper flat on the table. He pointed at an entry with his forefinger. "That's the one." He said. Hans stood up, peering over his brother's shoulder. Thankfully, he didn't smell as bad as he looked. Hans read the small print. "Wanted: Stagehand".

Hans blew air through his lips. "Child's play." he said. His brother laughed, clapping him on the back. "Thatta boy. Let's get you hooked up with an interview first thing tomorrow." Hans' eye twitched as he nodded. "Yeah." His brother left.

Hans stood up and unzipped his white coat. He walked calmly out the door, coat in his gloved left hand. He quickened his pace to a jog. He turned a corner. He ran to the hearth, took one last look at his jacket and then burned it.


	2. Prince Hans, Stagehand (Part 1)

Morning came.

The sun was still low on the horizon when Prince Hans woke from his slumber. It wasn't anything special, just filled with the usual dreams of world domination. He yawned and stretched his arms lazily, the hair on his arms rising from the chill. He retreated under the covers.

He couldn't remember much of his dream. He was sitting on a throne in a castle somewhere, being attended to by beautiful women and guarded by soldiers so loyal they'd lop off their own limbs if he told them to. His head was adorned with the most magnificent crown imaginable and on his hip was a sword of such fine steel that smiths all over the world cried tears of inadequacy just looking at it. It was a good dream.

_Was._

After _the thing_ happened, his good dreams always turned bad in the end. Whether it was getting his face frozen by a blast of ice magic or getting punched off a balcony in his own castle, the Arendelle sisters always found a way to torment him. Falling in his dreams was the worst. He never anticipated it, he had never thought of a scenario where he would fall. His dreams were meant to be perfect so when he fell, he fell into nothingness. For hours upon hours, just tumbling through the dark with giant floating freckle faced heads circling around him like vultures. Maybe he could fall forever in silence, but hearing "For the First Time in Forever" again and again (just the first line of the chorus, mind you) made it torture. He never understood why the floating Anna heads never sang the whole thing. Maybe it was intentional. The full song actually was quite catchy.

Thankfully, none of that happened this time. This time, he was mauled to death by an adorable animated snowman named Olaf.

Hans shivered, remembering the cold arms thrashing the side of his face and then ripping out his sideburns and his entire head of hair. He brought his arms up, making sure it was only a dream and that he had not, in fact, lost the things he treasured most. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"I hate snow." he grumbled, getting himself dressed. He picked out a light grey jacket from his closet. He was an outfit short, thanks to his brother. He hated burning clothes, but sometimes it was necessary to keep himself fashionably pure. He walked to the window, hoping his brother's carriage wasn't there. His heart fell when it was. Also, it was snowing. Hans banged his face against the pane. Or rather, he would have, if he didn't shatter it the day prior. A thin line of blood snaked down his forehead from where it was cut. _Fan-tastic_.

"Brooooo!" came a voice from the doorway. Hans turned, glare prepared. His brother Benson hopped on one foot, as if he'd sprinted down the hall and stopped abruptly. His mustache was as repulsive as ever, but at least he was well dressed. Hans looked away as his brother's eyes went to his forehead. "Woah, what happened there?" _You looked at it, that's what happened._ "Nothing." said Hans, in reply. Benson craned his neck to the side. "What happened to your windows?" he asked, only just noticing the broken glass. _You looked at those too, idiot._ "Peasants throwing rocks again." he said, instead.

Benson clucked. Hans wondered if Benson was a chicken in his former life. He wouldn't be surprised if he was. "You gotta tighten up security, little bro." The man moved up to clap him on the shoulder. Hans stepped to the side, dodging. "I could, if I actually had competent people working for me." Benson laughed, though Hans couldn't see what was so funny. "That guard still recovering from those cuts?" the boisterous man asked. Hans turned away from him, but nodded. "I wish he had just gotten an infection and died. Cutting himself on his own sword by holding the wrong end? _How in the frozen hell?_"

"Don't you know? Reverse sheaths are all the rage these days!" Hans raised a brow at his brother who held a toothy grin in place, as if expecting some kind of response. _Oh, it's a joke. Ha. Ha ha. _"Ha ha ha." Hans said.

"Well, let us not dally any longer. You have a job interview to get to!"

After the man had left to wait in the carriage, Hans turned to his mirror. His hair was immaculate, and his sideburns were trimmed to perfection. He smiled, pleased.

After an hour's ride, the village of whatever-its-name-was drew into view. Hans stuck his head outside the thin veil that hid him from the peasants' stares. If looks could kill, then he was certainly risking his life at that moment. _These people have no respect for royalty, _he thought, watching the young and old scutter about like mice. When a few of them finally looked his way, he gave them a smile. "Ladies." he said with a wink as the carriage lumbered by. The women swooned while the men turned away with a humph. Hans ducked back into the carriage.

"Did you bring a copy of your resume?" Benson asked as Hans patted down his shirt. "Of course I did." said Hans, giving his brother the best do-you-think-I'm-an-idiot look he could manage.

He still had a few misgivings about the whole 'getting a job' thing. It seemed a little too undignified for a Prince of the Southern Isles to be taking up work as a lowly stage hand. It would keep him out of prison, but still, his stint in Arendelle had cost him much of his reputation. _You don't get to the top without taking a few risks along the way_ he reminded himself, as an ugly black mop head looking thing landed on top of his newly washed white breeches. Hans yelped, shaking the carriage as he leapt away. The ugly black mop head looking thing plopped onto the floor. Benson reached over to pick it up. "You gotta wear this, bro." He said, patting away the dirt with his hand. "It'll keep 'em from recognizing you."

Hans jabbed an accusatory finger at the dangling strands of black in his brother's hand. "I am not wearing _that_." He said firmly. "It's hideous and looks like a mop head." Benson twirled it around his finger while Hans watched with caution. He was convinced it would fly off and strike him in the face, like many things seemed wont to do. "That's because it _is_ a mop head." he said, as if that made things better. "The store ran out of actual wigs so I asked the owner if he had something else we could use. It'll work, trust me. Now put it on."

Hans crossed his arms. "No." he said. Benson moved the mop thing closer to his face. "Put it on." Hans inched away. "No." he said, turning his head to face the veil. "I'll tell father you aren't complying with the terms of the agreement." Hans glared at him sharply, but his brother's face was serious. He sighed. "Fine." He put the thing on. He could feel his hair suffocating under the weight of ugly, betrayed in the name of not going to jail.

"Ah!" Benson exclaimed, his head sticking out of the carriage. "We're here!"

_Finally_, Hans thought, getting out. His brother stayed inside, much to his relief. He didn't know how much longer he could have lasted breathing the same air as that one. Despite being one of the more agreeable of his twelve older brothers, Benson was still borderline insufferable. As he walked away, Benson shouted something about an alias. Hans ignored him.

He entered the theatre, passing under a large sign that said _Alpha Strawberry Theatre_. _The hell kind of a name is that_, Hans thought as he walked over to the lady sitting at the front desk. "I'm here for an interview?" he said, trying to look dignified despite his appearance. After a quick burst of laughter, she pointed at a door farther along the wall. It was slightly ajar. He changed course, picking at the mop head on his head.

"Come in, come in!" said a brightly dressed man from within as Hans approached. Hans took a seat. The man had a stack of paper in his hands and was leafing through the individual sheets. "My name is Mr. Alpha." the man's voice was rough, like sandpaper. "You're the young man who wants to be a stage hand, yes?" he asked, his eyes never leaving the sheets. "Yes." Hans said, as politely as he could manage. "Hmm…"

After a few moments, the man looked up, taking a sip from his drink. He choked. Hans felt his face flush. _This stupid wig. _He cursed internally, having half a mind to rip the thing right off. Why did he keep wearing it, anyways? The man stuttered. "That's. Interesting." he coughed, taking his eyes off of Hans' 'hair' and bringing them back to the single sheet of paper left in his hand. The remainder of the stack was in an untidy pile on the desk. "Let's get straight to it then, Mr. Rock".

Hans stared. "What?" the man asked, eyes reflecting confusion. Hans looked at the sheet of paper in his own hands; the resume Benson had prepared. He scanned the page. Where his name was supposed to be, were instead the words_ The Rock._ Hans groaned. "Is there a problem, The?" He pronounced it like '_Thay'_. Hans shook his head, with a sigh. "No, sir. Just Rock, would be fine."

Mr. Alpha nodded. "Well I got good news for you, Rock." He waved the resume. "I like what I see. You're hired!" Hans blinked, unsure if he should be happy or disappointed. Before he could display either, the man stood up and left the room. _Why are people always doing that?_ He thought, slumping. Mentally, he added _kill Benson_ to his list of things to do before he died.


	3. Prince Hans, Stagehand (Part 2)

The following morning found Hans standing in the inner ward of his castle; just outside the keep. He'd requested for his carriage to be there by dawn and the crack of light on the horizon meant that the carriage was late. Hans grumbled, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. It wasn't surprising, really, as he'd grown accustomed to the incompetence of his servants over the years. The best praise he could give them was that they were the least incompetent of the incompetent. He would have fired them all if there were any better ones on the market.

He scanned the darkness. The courtyard was silent, save for the breeze. The grass was shaded but noticeably well kept, though they crunched when he stepped on them. The hedges that accompanied both sides of the pathway to the gates also looked acceptable despite their pale appearance. He stepped out onto the path, listening for the sounds of the gates opening in the distance. The way the weather was going, the courtyard would be covered in snow by the month's end. A true shame, since his landscapers did their jobs almost as infrequently as pigs sprouted wings and took to the sky.

Frost, especially in the fall, was rare. True winters even more so. The most the South got was a little flurry late in the season. This kind of weather was unheard of. Or at least it _was_ unheard of before Elsa decided to freeze everything. He couldn't help but think that some kind of residue from her magic kept the land cold. He breathed, billows of mist rising from his mouth as if it were smoke from a chimney. The cold would be bad for crops and for workers who earned their wages on the field. If it continued, there would be complaints and he would have to entertain them lest they revolt. _Blasted ice witch._ He would have entertained the idea of gathering a force of peasants to march against Arendelle were they not useless sacks of meat barely capable of lifting a pitchfork let alone a sword and shield.

He hated the cold. It made everything seem so much more hostile. The air, which was usually gentle and warm, became more _bitey_, as if it were a swarm of cold-blooded invisible gnats with a vendetta against soft cheeks and good things. It was a blessing that he didn't have to spend the day outside. Still, he had picked his clothing to suit the conditions; black breaches below a white patterned waistcoat and a white kerchief with a black greatcoat on top to combat the morning chill. Despite his many layers, he shivered. He shifted his feet, sweeping aside the thin patina of frost that coated the cobblestone pathway. The wig on his head bobbed up and down as he moved; an actual wig now, rather than the embarrassment from the day before.

_Where is that carriage!?_

As if on cue, the castle gates opened. By normal standards the word _castle _ would have been a gratuitous choice to describe the place he called home. Hans squinted, spotting the dark lumbering vehicle being pulled by a horse that seemed on the verge of collapse. "What took you so long?" Hans demanded, as the carriage pulled up in front of him. Its contents were hidden by a black veil. Benson's head popped out. He had a bread loaf in his mouth. "What's up bro?" he mumbled, in between bites.

Hans frowned but said nothing. He sat down next to his brother and the carriage shook as it adjusted to their combined weight. "Why are you still here, Benson?" he asked, once he was settled. "I already got the job."

Benson fingered his mustache, grabbing the tip of it in between his thumb and finger. He yanked on it, gently at first. After a moment, he pulled with greater force, coming away with a few strands. Hans stared at the hairs as Benson held them up proudly. He blinked, wondering what the point of it all was. Benson laughed. He flicked the hairs onto Hans coat. Hans yelped and fell out of the carriage. He landed on the grass, the frosted blades tickling his cheek. Benson's laughter boomed throughout the empty courtyard.

"You're ridiculous, brother." he said, in between breaths. Hans picked himself up and climbed back into the carriage. His brother sat there, his lips pinched together. His cheeks grew increasingly red as he struggled to keep the laughter in. Hans punched him.

"I have the room until tomorrow." Benson said in a nasal voice. He pressed the bloody cloth tightly against his nose. "Thought I might as well make the best of it. They serve some nice loaves of bread, eh?" He raised his voice.

"Aye, Prince Benson. The finest." came the reply from the driver.

"I invited him for breakfast before we came here." He said, crossing his legs. "What do you feed these people, Hans? They're half-starved!" _I wish that were true_, he thought. _Then maybe they'd actually do work. _ "They're fed adequately." Hans said. "I give them full meals along with their normal wages." _For what good that does me_. The servants were fed and paid according to standard, but their work was not up to par. He wanted to cut their pay but thought that would reflect poorly on him as his reputation was already questionable.

"Why don't you stay in the castle?" Hans asked. Though that was the absolute last thing he wanted his brother to do, courtesy demanded he ask. _Who does courtesy think they are, anyways, to be demanding such things? _The fact that his own brother didn't stay at his castle, no matter how much their current arrangement pleased him, would make the townspeople think there was some bad blood between them. There may well be bad blood between them - and actual blood too, given that bloody nose, but he'd rather not have the peasants be privy to the knowledge.

Benson replied with a shrug. "You'd hate the noise."

Hans raised his brow. "Noise?" he asked, though Benson's sly grin made him immediately regret it. "My lady friend likes it _loud._" he said, with a wink. Hans almost vomited. Such images killed people, and it was only by the mental fortitude that he had built up over extended exposure to Benson that he was able to survive. How any person, let alone a woman with any degree of class and dignity, could tolerate Benson to the point of sleeping with him was a miracle. In the past, he tried to imagine that whenever the man mentioned a female what he meant was a female _bear_, but that did not do much to improve visualizations.

The sad part was that if he were to rate the women brought home by each of his older brothers, Benson's past girlfriends would top the list. He wondered where he would rank if he'd married Anna as he had planned. He may not have loved her, but a decade ago, she would've been the perfect girl for him. Now she was just a singing floating head that haunted his nightmares. _At least she's a pretty floating head_, he thought, sighing. After an extended pause, the carriage finally started to move.

"So, first day on the job…" started Benson, wisely changing the subject. "Did Mr. Rainbow tell you what you'd be doing?"

"No." Hans said, cracking the veil open with his fingers. They passed the gate and were on their way to the village. The carriage creaked with each rotation of the wheel."He kinda just left me there after hiring me."

"Hm. A surprise, then. Lovely!" A couple crunches and Benson had devoured another loaf of bread. "You know, brother. I love what you've done with your hair."

Hans imagined lava shooting out of his eyes as he glared at the man and his breadcrumb covered mustache. Benson raised his palms innocently. "Thanks." he said, begrudgingly. The wig he had chosen actually looked a lot like his normal hair, only black instead of brown. It clashed awfully with his sideburns, but he still wasn't sure what he could do about that; all he knew was that there was no way he was cutting off perfection.

Benson smiled at him, which seemed unlike his usual smiles in a way Hans couldn't explain. The man reached into the folds of his coat and retrieved a letter. He tossed it onto Hans' lap. "It's an invitation." Benson said, as Hans pulled it out of its sheath. "A great feast. All the royal families are invited! Er… most of them, I guess."

Hans unfolded the paper, which was of a longer length than he was accustomed to. It was from the King of Ives, the central country of the continent. It was indeed an invitation to a feast and listed all of the royal families that were invited. He scanned the letter's contents quickly. The king's eldest daughter was to be married, finally, after years of failed attempts trying to get rid of her. Hans had met her himself. Horrible woman. That someone willingly agreed to to marry her was a miracle in itself. Hans agreed that it was worth rejoicing. "And we're all invited?" He asked, returning the letter to the envelope. Benson nodded.

"An actual feast." Hans found himself feeling excited about something for the first time in forever. _Blasted song._ Hans paused. "Is…?"

Benson, laughed. "Yep, them too." Hans dropped the envelope and slumped in his seat. The feast was dated several months later, so he'd still have time to make his decision. But still… _You always have to ruin everything, don't you, Anna?_ He leaned against the backrest with his shoulder, silent the rest of the way.

The carriage pulled into the theatre lot after a half-hour's ride. Hans bade his brother and the driver farewell and walked up to the door. It was his first day on the job. He pushed the door open and walked in, officially beginning his newest journey. Prince Hans, stagehand, and future king of the performing arts had finally arrived.


End file.
